


The Deceitful Detective

by hazeltea (madlovescience)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:05:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlovescience/pseuds/hazeltea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bit of parentlock inspired by The Dying Detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deceitful Detective

Hamish’s heart hammered as he walked to the headmaster’s office. He searched his mind for recent incidents he could possibly be in trouble for, and came up blank. Well, there were three possibilities. Four, if he counted what he’d written on his exam on Monday. Still, none of those things were worth the headmaster’s time; at most, his teacher might give him an exasperated talking-to. His heart sunk as he saw his father waiting tensely at the front desk, his brow furrowed in worry and his lips pursed tight.

 “Dad?” he asked, uncertainly, as soon as he was close. His instinct was to reach for his father’s hand, but he worried that he was cross with him.

 John’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, his fingers slipping into Hamish’s curls; easing that particular worry. “Don’t be scared, sweetheart, but Papa’s in hospital. I’m taking you home, okay?”

 “Is he okay?” Hamish yelped, not caring that he was making a scene. “What’s wrong?”

 “Shh. He’s caught… a sort of… a virus, during a case. The doctors are taking good care of him.” John’s voice was level, his posture stiff, military training betraying his masking of emotion. “Mrs. Hudson is going to watch you, unless you want to go to Uncle Mycroft’s.”

 Usually, he would jump at the chance to be spoiled by his much loved uncle, but Hamish had no intention of being left out of knowing everything possible about his papa’s welfare.  His parents led exciting lives, like superheroes or action cops on the telly. He loved few things as much as to hear his dad’s stories, which had never seemed frightening. Now, however, it was different.  “I want to go home.” he insisted.

 John nodded, and led him outside, where a black car was waiting. Once inside, Hamish leaned against his father’s shoulder.  “Can we go to see Papa?”

 John shook his head. “He’s in a special room, so that nobody catches what he has. We can call him later. I need you to be good for Mrs. Hudson.”

“Where are you going?” Hamish asked, sharply.

 “I have to meet someone who can help Papa.” John avoided his eyes, and Hamish frowned.

 “You’re going to meet the bad guy, you mean.”

“Yeah.” John looked directly at Hamish then, and smoothed back his hair. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll be back before tea.” 

 Hamish nodded, uneasily. “What’s Papa’s virus called?” he asked.

 “This strain doesn’t have a proper name that we know of. It looks like a type of hemorrhagic fever, and the bad guy is going to tell me what I need to know to help cure Papa.”

“Hemorrhay-“ Hamish muttered.

 “No computer at Mrs. Hudson’s. I don’t want you scaring yourself by looking up things he doesn’t have. Promise?”

 Hamish sighed. “Promise.”

 The car came to a halt, and Hamish was deposited at the door of 221A with a kiss from his father and a hug from Mrs. Hudson, who promptly attempted to distract him with a plate of biscuits. He forced himself to eat, although his throat felt too tight to swallow.

 ---

 Several hours later than he’d hoped, John returned to Baker Street. It had taken every last ounce of self control he possessed to plead with Smith. He’d had to flatter him, and outright beg him to treat Sherlock, as he’d been instructed to do, rather than kill the smug man with his bare hands as he’d liked.  There would be no police, he promised, no repercussions, and they would admit defeat if only he’d please, _please_ , cure his husband. John had found that he didn’t need to act, the tears came naturally, and all too readily. It was humiliating to go to pieces in front of an enemy, but that is what Sherlock had instructed him to do. Get the filth to believe he was desperate, and that Sherlock was on death’s door. Only, they had planned for it to be an act. It wouldn’t have made him feel so disgusted with himself, if it had all been an act. He had no doubt that Sherlock would see the man in custody by the end of the night, but it might be at the cost of his life, if Smith failed to deliver a cure.

 Hamish was waiting for him, of course, springing to the door in his pajamas before John had a chance to hang up his coat.  “Can we call Papa now?” he asked, anxiously.

 “I’ll call him, wait in the kitchen.” John fumbled for his mobile, sending his son scampering back to Mrs. Hudson’s cheery flat. 

Hamish wants to talk to you. Pick up. JW

You shouldn’t have told him. SH

 “What the hell was I supposed to tell him, Sherlock?” he demanded, as soon as his husband answered the line. “Do you think I’d just let him find out that you were dead sometime later? This is _our son_ , Sherlock-“

 “John, John. I won’t die.” Sherlock soothed him.

 “You don’t know that.” John snapped.

 “Papa!” Hamish was back at his side, impatiently pawing for the phone. John handed it over, and took a few deep breaths, doing his best to calm himself while Hamish chatted with his father.

 Several minutes later, Hamish handed it back.

 “Sherlock-“

“John. I need you to know that I love you both, very much-“

 “Don’t say things like that-“

“I do. I will not die, not like this. Put him to bed, and I will speak with you in the morning.”

“Don’t leave us.” John’s voice was barely a whisper, as he cupped his hand across the phone. He was worried that Hamish would overhear him, but too terrified that this might be the last time he’d speak with Sherlock to keep quiet.

 “Lestrade is here. I have to go.”

And that was that, there was only silence, and the imploring stare of an eight year old boy with his husband’s features left.

“Did you clean your teeth?” John asked, leading Hamish up the two flights of stairs to his bedroom. Hamish nodded. John could see that he was fighting his sleepiness, as it was later than his usual bedtime.

“Papa is going to be okay.” Hamish assured him, with a yawn. “He said so.”

 John smiled, feeling a sharp pain in his chest at his son’s simple faith in his father. He pulled the covers over him, and stayed by his side until he was asleep.

 Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him downstairs, with a cup of tea that he took with gratitude.  “Do you want me to sit up with you, dear?” She asked, once he had settled in to his chair.

 He shook his head. “No, it’s all right, you were such a help with Hamish-“

“You know I can’t get enough of that boy.” She scolded him, playfully. “If you’re certain, then, I’ll head off to bed.” He nodded.

 The flat felt unnaturally quiet once she’d gone. He paced the flat, washed out his mug, and finally went to the bedroom. Sighing, he kicked off his shoes and curled beneath the covers of their shared bed.

 He dialed Sherlock’s number, but got no response. Desperately, he switched to texting, forcing himself to wait several minutes between each plea.

 Please answer. I need you. We need you. 

I can’t lose you again. I’ll go mad.

I love you. 

 Sherlock, please. 

 He couldn’t trust Smith to keep his word. He should have killed him when he’d had the chance.  Sherlock was ill, weak and likely bleeding out of multiple orifices, and he, _Doctor_ Watson-Holmes, was helpless and useless. What if he could never kiss Sherlock again? What if he had to raise Hamish alone? He choked back a sob, and found himself hyperventilating. Panic. He hadn’t had a panic attack since after Sherlock had jumped and-

John gasped for air. He attempted to take a deep, slow breath, and failed. His hand clenched and unclenched, groping for his phone. Long minutes passed before he was able to think straight again, and take several deep breaths.

   Eventually, he was able to fall into a fitful sleep. At some point in the night, he realized that Hamish had joined him. He pulled the covers tighter around them, and kissed the soft, dark curls.

\--

 He awoke to the sound of Hamish’s laughter. Startled, he sat up to see Sherlock scooping Hamish just off his feet, swinging him playfully.

 “John.” Sherlock’s eyes were bright, shining with the elation of a case solved.

 “Smith actually took the bait. He went to the hospital and cured you.” John silently prayed that he wasn’t dreaming, for he’d had these kind of hallucinations before, during that dark time when Sherlock was _away_.

 “Of course he came, John, your persuasion was flawless.” He let Hamish go, and pulled John into a celebratory kiss.

John didn’t let it last. “How did you clear quarantine so quickly?”

 “Don’t be dull, John. I was never really ill. Lestrade arranged for the hospital room. It was enough to fool a moron like Smith. _Dr._ Smith, no less. “

 John felt the blood drain from his face before rising up again in fury. “You kept that from me. From us.”

 Sherlock sighed. “I told you I wasn’t going to die, John.”

 “You frightened our son.”

 “I wasn’t the one who told him that his father was in hospital-“

“You have no idea, do you?” John pulled on his shoes, and swiped his keys and phone from the bedside table. “You have no idea what you did to me. You’re a monster.”

“Where are you going?” Sherlock snapped.

“Away.” John snarled. “Don’t follow me.”

He stormed out the door, leaving a stunned Sherlock in his wake.

\--

 John had always been cautious with alcohol, knowing that he was genetically susceptible to addiction and thus, disaster. He had perfected the art of making a pint last twice as long as his mates’, and so he was able to brood in the pub for several hours. He loved Sherlock, there was no doubt of that. He loved Sherlock so much, it would kill him someday, perhaps sooner rather than later, and in a slow, painful way instead of a stray bullet. It would be easy to say that Sherlock didn’t know any better, and perhaps that was still true to an extent, even after all this time. Still, he should know better. Ten years ago, Sherlock had returned from the dead to find John empty and broken, addicted to anti-depressants and valiantly resisting drink, working eighty hours a week at the local clinic simply so that he hadn’t the time or energy to think. He should know better. He was, after all, a genius.  

 John’s anger brewed as he drank. Maybe he should let Sherlock know what abandonment felt like. If he was flippant enough to break John’s heart a second time, maybe that meant that he didn’t give a toss about his marriage.  He thought that he could stay with Harry for a while, although she would be disappointed in him. She had given them Hamish. She’d had to get clean to do so.  It was hard for her, it was still hard.

 Hamish.

 Guiltily, John reached for his phone. He had to tell his son that somehow, it would be okay, that none of this was his fault, not ever.  He cursed as he realized that it was powered off. A steady stream of texts awaited him as it connected, only one from Sherlock, and a flurry from Hamish about two hours later.

 John, I’m sorry. I thought that you knew after I spoke with you. SH

Dad? Where are you? 

Don’t be angry, please.  He told us he would be okay.

He’s sorry, I can tell. 

Daddy, I’m sacred. Papa is crying. He thinks I can’t tell. Don’t tell him I said so. Come back. I’m sorry, too.

 John was on his feet quickly. He left a generous handful of bills on the counter and hurried home.

  As he opened the door, his ears were assaulted by the discordant notes of Sherlock’s violin, voicing his distress. He took the steps two at a time, and stood breathless in front of Sherlock.

 Sherlock set down the violin and raised his chin defiantly, although John could see uncertainty in his silvery eyes.

 “Do you know what you did wrong, and why it was wrong?” John managed, trying to keep his voice level.

  Sherlock bit his lip.

 “If you can’t even admit that, Sherlock, I’m going to leave. I can’t survive these tricks of yours. If being _right_ is more important to you than our marriage is-“

“Stop.”  Hamish strode towards them, an odd, fierce look in his eyes.

 “Sweetheart-“ John  focused on the small, trembling boy.

 “You can’t leave.” Hamish practically growled, impressively for a child, John thought.  “You can never go.”

 “I’m going to stay with Aunt Harry, just for a little while.” John felt guilty even as the words escaped him. He was ready for Sherlock’s cold stare, but he was not prepared for his usually quiet son’s reaction.

 “ _No!_ ” Hamish screamed, throwing his full body weight at John, who lost his balance as small fists pummeled his chest in a tantrum. In the split second that followed, John was aware of stumbling backwards. Sherlock darted forward to steady them, but Hamish’s flailing limbs knocked their combined weight over. Sherlock curled his limbs around his family as they toppled down the staircase, shielding them from harm. John winced as he sat up, cradling a sobbing, frightened child. Sherlock scrambled over to them. He had a gash on his temple, but ignored it in favor of checking John and Hamish for injury.

 “We’re fine.” John managed, casting a worried look at his husband. “Can you stand? Let me clean that.” He followed Sherlock up the stairs, and proceeded to wipe Hamish’s face with a wet flannel and bandage Sherlock’s cut, which thankfully didn’t require stitches. He felt Sherlock’s body for damage, and fetched ice for an angry bruise that was forming on his shoulder. There was silence, apart from Hamish’s uneven sniffles.

 “I was wrong.” Sherlock frowned. “Nothing is more important to me than both of you are. “

 “The work is my work, too.” John replied, his voice softening.  Their eyes met in an unspoken understanding over Hamish’s head.   _I need you. I need us._

 “Hamish, sweetheart.” John murmured. “I’m sorry. I’m not going to leave. You’re right, it’s a stupid idea.”

 Hamish gave him an uncertain smile.

 “Tomorrow, let’s do something together, as a family.” Sherlock added, resting a hand on John’s shoulder. “We’ll go to the museum to see the dinosaurs.”

 Hamish brightened at the suggestion.

“And I think some take away is in order tonight.” John added, earning him a wide smile from his son.  Sherlock’s hand tightened on his shoulder, and John leaned into him. He would be crazy to leave this family, he thought, fondly. Even if it killed him someday.

 


End file.
